


Feather Fall

by SecurityVampire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Murder Mysteries - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22339150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecurityVampire/pseuds/SecurityVampire
Summary: An average argument about ineffability, like any other, only something in Crowley cracked, and he finally called a certain angel out on how little he knew. The problem is, he got curious. The problem is, angels don't ask questions. Because angels who start asking questions don't stay angels long at all.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 70





	1. Breaking Point

Crowley lunged. This was an understatement. He went from perfectly still to a blur of condensed intent that resembled nothing so much as, in a very true to form move, a serpent striking.

The next moment his hand was gripping the angel's collar and said angel would find himself slammed into the wall behind him. While anyone happening upon this scene would be sure to feel they were interrupting _something,_ their first guess would most likely be an imminent murder.

"Now you listen here you _pompous,_ holier-than-though _little_ princssssipality."

He leaned in close as he drew the word out, venom dripping from his tone.

"Have you ever even met your beloved, _ineffable_ God? Really met, in person, up close? Sat 'round in Her little circle of holy sycophants?"

The hand tightened, just a little, but just enough that it was probably lucky that angels didn't really need to breathe.

"You ever wonder why you didn't recognize me in the garden? Ever stopped to think about that one?"

It is a common misconception that the wings of demons are any different than the wings of angels. It is also a somewhat more modern misconception that the wings of angels are all, roughly, the same.

In fairness, he didn't take this particular form often, nor had he even in the old days. It was a bit showy, even for him, and it had a lot of bits to keep _track_ of. Now that it wasn't the old days, it was a reminder of things he tried very hard never to think about. But he was making a goddamn point, he thought, as the sound of shredding fabric was suddenly very loud.

"It's _because,"_ he began, as the six wings shedding the remains of his coat stretched and beat, just once. "You're... _nothing."_

Maybe he was going too far, something in the back of his thoughts reminded him, but he was this far in. "In Her eyes, anyway." (Everything, in some others, currently glaring down at the angel from an assortment of dizzying angles, but that wasn't a thought he was prepared to acknowledge right now.)

There was something else, something behind this. A flicker in the air. Something not quite visible and yet, to the right kind of perception, not quite invisible either. More of a half-glimpsed half-formed imprint on reality. Or perhaps more accurately an imprint of a memory.

Not _there_ in any real sense, but just maybe enough to give an impression.

That impression would be of _size._ That impression would put one in the mind of metallic scales, and claws, and quite a lot of teeth. That impression _might_ make one think upon the lingering belief in _dragons._

It _might_ make one think of conversations beginning with _'be not afraid.’_

That impression _might_ be of a creature which, if one were petty and cruel enough, one could make an absolute _mockery_ of by stripping away its limbs, and its talons, and its _wings,_ and cursing it to _slither._

And then... he sagged, taking a step back. The fire drained out of him almost as quickly as it had boiled to the surface, leaving nothing more than a deep sense of exhaustion. "But then again,” he conceded, voice jumping up an octave with a tone of forced airiness, “turned out the same went for the _rest_ of us. Funny, really."

The acrid scent of scorched feathers subsided, the shimmer left the air, and Crowley's coat was in one piece, and perhaps none of that had really quite happened, from a certain perspective.

"Just remember the next time you say She doesn't play games--the next time you try so _fucking_ hard to justify _cruelty_ that _nothing_ is also exactly how much you _know."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things! While this opening is all mine, the story is a collaboration with one of my best friends (cryptic-cockroach on tumblr, go check out his related art under the tag feather fall!)
> 
> It's a slightly-edited roleplay, so it's not structured the way I would normally approach a fic, but I like our writing and I hope some of you enjoy coming along for the ride.
> 
> Also, this is a divergent timeline starting before the apocalypse. Oh, and for anyone who happens to be curious, the non-humanoid Crowley form is a type of angel called a chalkydri.


	2. Speaking to Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale looks for answers in all the wrong places.

+++

  
This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and in the moment Aziraphale wouldn’t regard it as the last, but even in the split second he had before he was slammed and pinned against the wall he could recognize there was considerably more force to this than he’d expected from the other. 

Even as Crowley spoke, with malice and discontent, it was so much _more_ than he’d possibly been anticipating. They’d had arguments of similar ilk over morality and the Plan, but rarely were any sort of punches thrown. 

He didn’t have time to speak before the grip on his throat was tightened and suddenly, he couldn’t speak at all. His hands flew up finally to grasp at Crowley’s wrists, unworked and delicate fingers digging in and trying to pry them off while he sputtered.

_Ever stopped to think about that one?_

Well-- yes, a long time ago. But he’d just assumed Crowley’d been lower than he was, after all, he wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as most demons, much more agreeable and hardly as _evil._ Less to corrupt, he figured. And it was left at that, never to be thought on terribly because who Crowley was _now_ was what mattered.

Speaking of nows, how about this moment? The moment Aziraphale’s eyes went wide and what glimmer in them died down behind fear and awe. Where his legs felt like mush under his weight, knees wobbling like they could give out. Being bored into by god knows how many eyes, really he couldn’t count them, as he stared up at the great wings they were embedded into.

Realization hit hard and it was possibly the most painful sensation Aziraphale had ever felt. 

_You’re nothing._

True, oh god. It was true. Compared to the Almighty, to **this?** In front of him was something beautiful and spectacular, fallen and disgraced yet still more mighty than he could hope to muster himself as. He almost immediately let go of Crowley, withdrawing his hands like he’d touched something scalding hot. He wasn't stammering anymore, he wasn't even _trying_ to breathe.

The moment Crowley let go he slumped down the wall until his hands flew back and braced himself. Even as the wings withdrew Aziraphale stared at him not with the pining an unfamiliar eye may notice, not with that twinkle of mischievousness when they share a plot, no. 

He looked deeply, and utterly _afraid._ Much like a small child facing a great beast from the closet that their parents ignored. 

He didn’t say anything but he moved after a bit, one foot to the side, a pause, then the next. Then he was scurrying, finally tearing his gaze from Crowley to the alley entry, arms close in to himself as he paced with purpose and near desperation to simply... get away. Get _anywhere_ that wasn’t near Crowley, or anyone for that matter. Not that he was certain where he could go now.

He wasn’t certain of _anything_ anymore, really.

+

Crowley had just... cracked. Six-thousand years of little jabs and little assumptions and little reminders of how _very_ brainwashed Aziraphale was, and something just broke.

He hadn't meant to _scare_ him, not really--no, that was a blessed lie. In the moment, he'd absolutely meant to scare him. Meant to scare the angel and shut him up and snap him out of being the--the way he was, just in general.

But he hadn't meant this. He hadn't meant to be looked at like something _terrifying._ Like everything was true, everything the Almighty on down the ranks had ever said about Demons. Like he _really_ was the monster in the shadows, like he really was something to _run_ from.

The irony wasn't lost on him that this wasn't even a form he had _because_ of his fall, but that look of absolute fear brought a wave of self-loathing crashing down so hard it didn't really matter the specifics. Holy flame and Hellfire both _burn._

The angel had called him evil countless times over the years, of course, always _said_ he didn't trust him, for appearance sake, but that was different. If there was one creature in the entire blasted universe that didn't need to fear him, it was Aziraphale. And now he was utterly terrified a split second of rage had ruined that.

"...Angel? I... I..." His voice was hollow. The frustration was gone and now he just sounded lost.

What could he say? What would matter right now? Should he follow him? Maybe, but he couldn't seem to force himself to move.

+

It was Aziraphale’s fault really. He'd been pushing him for so long, so far. He didn't entirely get it, what he was doing wrong--it just didn't occur to him. He thought he was simply stating the gospel truth! That Crowley understood the fundamentals at play in God's work. 

That he was evil, that Aziraphale was good, and that's why he was a demon, and Aziraphale still an angel.

But now Aziraphale was thinking, a dangerous thing to do. He was thinking about _why_ Crowley was a demon. He was so... good, compared to what he'd heard of demons, so unlike them. Why, even Crowley spoke of his betters and lessers down there with disdain. What could he have done, then, to warrant such a fall? Why hadn't he told him sooner?

When he heard that, ‘angel,’ he stopped. Hand on the corner of the alley wall, not looking back into it, instead staring down and ahead. Hesitating a moment as the temptation to turn around gripped him, but he resisted it. 

"Don't--please. Not now." He stopped to say more but his mouth shut into a tight lip and he paced out into the street. He had more thinking to do, and questions that needed answering.

+

Crowley opened his mouth to say _something,_ anything, but he stopped. Fine. _Fine._ Aziraphale didn't want to hear it, and Crowley couldn't blame him.

He just... watched him leave, before pulling off his glasses, running his hands over his face, and leaning back against the brick wall.

No, no, this wouldn't do. He couldn't just sulk in an alley all night. Not when there was bound to be somewhere open that served alcohol.

  
+++  
  


Now it _had_ been quite some time since Aziraphale had popped up to home base himself. He'd rather avoided it last time actually, they gave him a medal and everything before informing him he'd actually be staying longer. But this time he'd be going of his own accord. 

It'd been three days since he'd last seen Crowley. He’d been pouring over biblical texts, trying to rattle his memory. Nothing jogged it and he gave up on the second night with a bottle of champagne to soothe his nerves.

He saw them clearly, six great beating wings with eyes, so many eyes that bored into him. He'd hardly interacted with higher ups in general, wasn't his jurisdiction. And he'd been--consorting with one this whole time.

Needless to say, many questions were indeed left unanswered as he stepped past the threshold and into Heaven once more. Michael, he figured, may have been the most learned in the subject of the fallen, but he had to say between Gabriel and them, he much preferred Gabriel. Though without scheduling he supposed he'll have to work with what he's given.

In a small stroke of luck, it would be Gabriel he was able to spot first. The Archangel was strolling past, on his way from one tedious duty to another, when he blinked in surprise.

"Aziraphale?"

Gabriel put on a cheerful smile, perhaps a second too late. Aziraphale didn't exactly leave Earth often, so that made this a bit... concerning.

 _Oh bless,_ Aziraphale would think to himself and nary admit it. A small smile crossed his face in response but it seemed insincere and distracted, more just a formality than any sign of genuine care in greeting. He offered a small wave before pacing over, hands fidgeting idly with his ring as he did.

He always seemed to do that, fidget. With such an occupied mind it helped him be idle if not entirely still. He wasn't prone to accept doing nothing at a given moment.

"Ah, yes Gabriel! I'd been hoping to talk with you if you don't mind. Very brief, but a matter of minor importance," he puttered on, "though of course nothing important enough that it should interrupt any immediate divine issues that need tending to."

After a moment, Gabriel held up a hand. Aziraphale would likely never get to his point otherwise.

"I can spare a few minutes, what with all the good work you've been doing down there."

He turned in the direction of heading back to his office, with an 'after you' motion.  
  
Aziraphale quickly stopped himself. "Good, good.” He softly muttered as he began pacing ahead, not looking back as he spoke along the way. “Speaking of my work, you’re well aware of the demon Crowley, yes?” Rhetorical, he didn’t give much time to respond.

“Well I’d been thinking,” he should have stopped there, or well before it, before he even came here. “He’s been rather slippery lately, proving some challenges.” Though those were more challenging pills to swallow than actual trials to face.

Aziraphale dipped into the office and stopped with a breath of confidence. “How did he fall exactly? I know we don’t look back on that business fondly, but some recent revelations have made it seem that knowing more on the issue may prove useful in our conflict?”  
  
Gabriel wasn't sure why the principality was acting _quite_ so nervous-- last time they saw each other he'd been awarding a medal, after all.

He nodded to the first question. Of course, of course. He then blinked, and tilted his head to the side.

For a moment it looked like gears were turning, but then he smiled a bright, brittle smile.

"You do have Bibles in that thing you were opening, the... the bookstore, don't you?" Not that he'd bothered to read it, personally, but he was fairly sure it spelled things out.

"He was part of the rebellion. Lucifer's army. Dared question the Almighty. He's _evil._ Why would anything else matter?"  
  
Aziraphale twisted at his fingers before making small mannerisms as he spoke. Eyes constantly darting off to... whatever he could point out in the office that wasn’t as bland as the rest of heaven. He started off bluntly, possibly a tremendous mistake on his part.

“Yes but-- but _what_ questions? I mean, questions can’t be all that _bad…_ can they?” He couldn’t exactly say that, in the end, there was still fundamental good left in Crowley, a fair bit to counter that evil that comes with being a demon, that would give them away.

“Not that I mean to speak too boldly, that is. It’s just--I’ve been thinking. If simply questioning the Almighty is so bad, why not lay things bare? I mean, how evil can it be to wonder why things are--“ he stopped himself, backtracked a little before folding his hands in front of himself and dodgily looking between Gabriel and the floor. “The way they are?”  
  
This was going so much worse than Gabriel had expected, or really knew how to handle.

"Did you miss the part," the Archangel spoke crisply and slowly, "where he _rebelled?"_

That should have been the end of the conversation. That should have been the beginning of the conversation. There should have never _been_ a conversation.

"And things are the way they are because it is our Lord's will. The Plan."

He paused, puzzled.

"I know you're doing good work. Very good, very _important_ work. But are you sure you haven't... been on Earth too long?"

Aziraphale didn’t say anything to that. He looked like he _wanted_ to say something, but finally managed to take hold of his reservations and for once make himself shut up before he got in too much trouble.

Though it was quite possible he’d crossed that line already. He didn’t think too much on that, or at all. Denial was the name of Aziraphale’s constant state, denial in the face of holy retribution.

His brows furrowed some and he shook his head like he misheard and he was trying to reset his head. Which he cocked to the side some, looking a bit like a perturbed barn owl before righting it.

“I’m not sure what you mean by that. It’s not all that bad really, in fact there are some rather lovely places to pop by should you ever fancy er... taking a look.”

"I have."

Again, that crisp, slightly too wide smile.

"I like the suits." After all, Gabriel did have that tailor he'd once introduced Aziraphale to. Probably dead by now, come to think of it. He'd have to find another.

"And not much else. But it's not my department.

Again, the smile. This conversation appeared to be over. There would be no answers, but there would, perhaps, be consequences.

Aziraphale spared him one more glance and a more wary smile. He recognized pushing any further would be playing with hellfire and he nodded, “Right, right.. well I, I suppose I’ll be off then.” His metaphorical tail between his legs as he stepped away towards the door, “Good luck on the work up here, hope it all goes well.”

He turned to the door as he took in a deep breath. He didn’t need to but it was just instinct at this point, no longer even noticing he did it sometimes, it just felt _right._

All the same, he turned to the door of the office, eager to be on his way out and pacing back to earth, to home, provided no one stopped him.

No one did stop him, but that didn't mean he didn't run into anyone.

"Hello, Aziraphale." The tone was sickly sweet, and likely all too familiar.

Michael was standing in the doorway, and smiling. There was no way to say how long they'd been there--the office hadn't been closed, closed doors would be against the _spirit_ of things. And Michael had an ability to _lurk_ more befitting of the other side.

"So sorry to have missed your _report."_

They stepped aside.

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks when confronted with Michael’s visage. He couldn't even force the same fake, formality smile he'd had with Gabriel. He just stared at them like a deer caught in the headlights, not even catching they'd moved out of the way immediately when they did.

"Ah, yes... a shame." He said, and finally walked past them in a bit of a hurry. He didn't feel... welcomed, in the moment. Then again it hardly ever felt welcoming in Michael's presence, though that may have just been him.  
  


+++  
  


When Aziraphale returned to his bookshop he would find nothing disturbed, but one addition.

There was a box of chocolates sitting on his desk. There was also a note, but it simply read 'sorry' in familiar handwriting. It wasn't signed, one had got to be careful after all. But then again, who _else_ knew the angel's favourites? And who else didn't need keys?

 _Oh bugger._ A frown found its way across Aziraphale’s face as he reached out, gingerly lifting the note and running his fingers over the writing. He let out a bit of a defeated sigh and set it beside the chocolates, which he idly opened up and plucked one out as he dialed up on the phone.

+

Crowley wouldn't hear a ring, nobody _really_ called, but he found a message waiting in his voicemail.

_I'm terribly sorry, I fear I may have overreacted in the moment to... all that. My fault, really. The chocolates are most appreciated, perhaps you'd like to try some yourself if you haven't already? Just a thought._

One would suppose there were more subtle ways to ask your enemy, for all intents and purposes, to come over so you could talk, and less... forward in other aspects, though that was lost on him at the time, and perhaps forever actually.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still figuring out a schedule, but there's a lot more to come. Also, I'm leaving in most (though not all) of the original breaks between posts for the sake of flow.


	3. Like the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale looks for answers in all the right places, which might be worse.

It would be a bit before Crowley thought to check his phone, let alone his voicemail. He was dealing with his problems in, well, a very human way: drinking solidly, sulking, and pretending that they didn't exist.

When he did notice, he listened to the message a couple of times, just to make sure he'd heard that right, before letting himself smile. He doubted things were _fine,_ but at least the angel wasn't avoiding him.

A few hours after Aziraphale leaving the message, Crowley found himself waiting outside the bookshop. He'd cleaned up a bit, though he still seemed ruffled compared to his usual, slick self. He'd knocked, and now he was just rocking up and down on his heels as he waited for a response. Normally he'd just let himself in, but he wasn't sure if that was the best move right now.

+

Aziraphale took to instead puttering about his shop. Taking things out, putting them back into place. Numbering, Alphabetizing. Taking stock and then doing it all over once more. He did this all rather quickly. Or his ever persistent _thinking_ was making time feel all too slow in comparison. Constantly looking back to the phone like a dog awaiting its master’s return.

Once, it did ring, a customer. He told them off as politely as he could manage before hanging up. This was all getting to him a bit much. He took to setting a table in the backroom, champagne of which he'd already started, the box of chocolates, a candle set in the middle of the table. He... he wanted to apologize, for many things, so he figured he'd make it as calm and set an environment as he could.

When he heard the knock he perked up a bit, taking a deep breath and smoothing out his clothes. Right, off to it then. The Angel would shuffle up to the front of the store and unlock the several latches on the door. He held it open, giving Crowley a small nod as he did, "You came," He stated, almost surprised, almost relieved, "Come in, to the back, as usual."

+

Crowley was more impatient and on edge than he would have liked to admit. If Aziraphale had changed his mind or something--well, as much as he was apologizing, he'd _had_ reasons he was angry, and they were coming back to mind.

His glasses almost entirely hid the relief in his face when the door opened. Wait, was the angel surprised? Of _course_ he'd come, but, well, he couldn't just say that, especially not when the idea he even _had_ to made him feel... something. Especially not with things off between them the way they were.

"Yeah, well, s'not like I had any plans." Aside from feeling sorry for himself, but he _definitely_ wasn't going to admit that. He nodded, stepping past Aziraphale.

+

It was a bit awkward on both accounts it seemed. Neither really knowing what the other was thinking, neither really knowing how to move now that this new variable was in their space. He took it in and it was just... Crowley. Crowley his slightly rumpled state, shaped so deceivingly human, and not at all like something almighty and terrifying.

It was just. Crowley. And that was a breath of fresh air after his run in with heaven that he'd found himself already missing.

"Ah- well, can't be too certain. After all, I'm not a witch," he added a bit jokingly as he ushered Crowley in. Shutting the door and snapping up the locks on it. 

"It's good though, that you didn't have much else to do. Well I suppose it could be perceived as bad from another lens of doing nothing at all but you're here, instead." It was quickly evident Aziraphale wasn't doing... great. Yet he still lead Crowley into the back and pulled out a seat for him, before sliding into his own across the table. He'd already started eating some of the chocolates before Crowley had arrived but left a fair bit untouched.

+

Normally the angel's rambling was endearing, and to be honest it sort of was even now, as much as he regretted the tension in the air. Either way, he softened a bit from his slightly-too-casual pretense.

"Yeah, I know what you're getting at."

After only a brief pause, he slipped into the chair and sprawled in _almost_ his usual 'making himself a bit too at home' way. He couldn't help but be just a little amused that Aziraphale had gotten a head start on both the drinking and the sweets, but he also couldn't blame him. Crowley reached over and popped a chocolate into his mouth, mostly just for something to do; he wasn't quite as fond of sugar as the angel.

+

There were little tells in there. A weird sort of emphasis he put on _good, bad,_ the perception of the situation. A higher being may have recognized from that what was troubling him. It leaked out into his simple thoughts, making everything seem much more complicated than it was several days ago.

"Ah--good, good. Definitely good." Or bad? Should he be doing this at all? Setting this all up felt so second nature in his state of wanting to make it up to Crowley but is that the course of action he should be taking at all? 

He moved his hands down into his lap where they fidgeted under the table, picking at the skin of his cuticles. "So--as I said, I wanted to talk..." He took a small inhale and exhale, letting his shoulders drop somewhat as his gaze landed on the small flame of the candle. 

"I shouldn't have run off on you like that. And quite frankly it's come to my attention I'd said and have been saying some things that," he could have said _didn’t entirely_ here, but he didn't, "you didn't deserve."

He reached over and poured Crowley a glass as he spoke more, not looking him in the shaded eyes almost out of shame. "But... I was also wondering if it's not too untoward of me, to ask some questions about... that whole affair."

+

Crowley was a bit caught off guard. It wasn’t as if he hadn't been _trying_ to snap the angel out of his way of thinking, but part of him never expected it to work, not really, not at this point. He shifted in his chair, not quite sure how to respond to this.

"It's... it's alright. I mean, it's _not_ , but--it's not like we'd ever talked about it all. It's not like we do _talk."_

This came out perhaps a little more bitter than intended, but perhaps the angel would know what he actually meant. They did talk, of course, more to each other than anyone else in creation by now, but as close as they were there were lines and barriers and pitfalls, things they didn't say and didn't quite say, topics they only pushed so far even when Crowley pushed more than he really _should._

"You _really_ want to?" He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He _wanted_ the angel to understand, and he _didn't_ want to dredge up old memories any more than he already had, and he knew asking questions wasn't exactly within the rules Aziraphale still tried to bend but not _break._

+

Aziraphale's eyes twitched and he nodded. "You're right, and I'm very sorry for it, as I said." He set the bottle down and took up his own glass, knocking back some of the drink. When he swallowed it felt drier than it should have. He knew this was wrong, in every sense of the word, but Pandora's box had been opened and who was he to resist what was inside?

He thought, staring down at the liquid in his glass in silence, before nodding wordlessly. It was a few seconds more before he mustered up the wherewithal to speak again. 

"I think it's high time we do, we can't keep doing this... _I_ can't."

He set the glass down and finally looked up to Crowley, the flickering light of the candle highlighted his wrinkles, the bags under his eyes. They'd been there since the start but they seemed more pronounced like this. "What happened to you? I mean... Surely, something occurred, the catalyst before the fall. Why did you rebel? Don't worry... you may take your time in answering."

+

Very briefly, Crowley went still. _We can't keep doing this._ It wasn't the first time Aziraphale had said it, not by any stretch of the imagination. Crowley had given up keeping count. But this time it felt just a little bit more real, and he didn't enjoy that feeling at all.

He fidgeted with his sunglasses, pushing them further up his nose, and suddenly more grateful than usual for how much they did to hide his expression. Even with that, he couldn't seem to look at the angel for long, turning his gaze to the fire as well.

He picked up the champagne and took a long drink, directly from the bottle, before slouching further into his chair.

"I see, you wanna hear about all the _evil_ things I did?" He drawled, almost teasing, mostly sarcastic, and... very performative. To be honest, he really was just buying time.

+

He was finally given in. He was beaten. Crowley cornered him into checkmate and Aziraphale simply _couldn't_ dodge it anymore, in a way he won by getting him to ask him these things. Dangerous, questions were dangerous. But everything about them was dangerous, and they'd been doing just fine. Why would this be any different?

He watched the other slouch and a patient, almost pitying worried look crossed his face, though less patronizing and more watching a bird limp around being genuinely distressed about the fact you don't know how to help it.

He nodded once and plucked some chocolates from the box finally, "If you want, if not we can disregard that, simply... go back to things as they were." Here he was, offering a ripcord out of this conversation, though part of him wanted to press it harder.

+

Oh, that look--that look was almost _worse._ Crowley had just been trying to... rile him up, he supposed, or something. He didn't need pity, he didn't _want_ pity, he didn't know _what_ he wanted. Maybe he just wanted what the angel was, to his mild surprise, offering.

He tilted his head to the side, looking briefly at Aziraphale and then away again. _"Can_ we though?"

He doubted it, they'd come this far. The way things _were_ had been balanced over a breaking point for, well, centuries now. Even if they delayed this conversation, he had a feeling that that was all they'd be doing.

+

Aziraphale pondered on that, silently chewing away at a chocolate before swallowing it down to join the rocks in his stomach. "I’d say not... it's inevitable I suppose, with how things have gone..." He sighed a little, slumping back into his chair tiredly, a hand moving to rub the bridge of his nose, pushing up his small spectacles.

"Regardless, I suppose it could be put off a bit, at the very least?" He had a feeling Crowley wanted no part of this and it did make him feel a tad awful he was backing him into a corner here so the least he could do was provide whatever alternatives he could in case he’d rather not go down this well just yet.

He moved his gaze to the flickering candle and the things about the table. Hardly a romantic atmosphere. Not that there was anything romantic about this affair. Though he'd prefer that over the tense feeling like they were both teetering on the head of a pin, hands intertwined depending on each others balance not to fall.

+

That idea was very, very tempting. But at the same time, if he _did_ put it off, well, what then? Avoiding each other more? Solving his problems by taking another century long nap and hoping they looked better? There was _no_ good solution here, really.

"No, no, s'alright..."

He shifted around, re-crossing his legs, sprawling at a different angle in his chair. He wasn't good at holding still at the best of times, but it was particularly obvious now.

"Look, I was joking--even if that _is_ what you wanted to hear, you'd be disappointed." After all, this wasn't a story about evil, and really, that was the whole point. He took another drink.

And then he just... started talking. Perhaps he was going to say something else, but what came out was a rambling mess.

"I just..." He see-sawed a hand vaguely. "You know, sauntered vaguely downward. I didn't have any plans that day, and television hadn't been invented yet, and then hey, here's Lucifer and the boys, and all the _cool_ kids are rebelling--"

He trailed off, unable to miss how absolutely hollow all of this rang, even to himself. "Yeah, okay," he muttered, "that's not gonna cut it, is it?"

+

He shook his head lightly, hands folded neatly in his lap, for once he wasn't fidgeting. All of his attention, completely undivided on Crowley. Like he couldn't turn it away, turn it off, focus on anything but the fallen in the form of a snake, in the form of a man.

"I think you overestimate what exactly it is I'm expecting." It'd be much easier wouldn't it? If Crowley had done some horrible, heinous thing as his act of rebellion. If he'd been as loud as them. But he never really got that feeling from him, now more than ever.

He turned to that sorrowing pity look again and wordlessly reached over, a reassuring hand brushing over Crowley's knuckles. Some men may shy at such a gesture but Aziraphale didn't seem to think twice about it, whether it be his usual oblivious ignorance or otherwise.

"Like I said, my dear, take your time. I can't imagine this is easy to talk about, and I wouldn't dare expect you to rush it... find what words feel right, however long it may take."

+

This, finally, made Crowley look directly at him again. His expression softened into something more vulnerable than he would have liked to admit. There was a part of him, and not even a small one, that wanted to take that hand, for balance, for... something. Take it, and squeeze, and center himself around that point of connection.

But he didn't.

What he did was look away again, more thoughtful this time.

"Well, in the beginning--" He put on a dramatic tone for this, but his heart wasn't really in the joke, so he took a sip of champagne and started over. "In the beginning, I mean, this is the bit you know now, I was... one of the big boys." Even now, there was only _so_ seriously he could make himself phrase this.

"And I'm not sure why that surprised you so much, really, I mean--you _know_ who the--the biggest boy was." Wait, no, that sounded _too_ stupid. "The favorite I mean. _Everyone_ knows that much."

+

Aziraphale didn't move his hand. It simply laid there over Crowley’s. Like he wasn't afraid of someone seeing, no, he had something more on his mind. Worry for Crowley. When he mentioned that Aziraphale shouldn't have been so surprised he slowly moved his hand back to his lap.

"I always assumed... and I mean no offense to this, that you were lower, that you must have been swept up in it all without much thought..." He hesitated again before looking down to the ring on his finger, hands still folded neatly back in his lap. "You've never been that _bad,_ Crowley. You even said it yourself, they told you to 'go up there and cause some trouble'."

He mimicked his way of speaking as he did so, not in a mocking manner, more on instinct. 

"It just... got me thinking, is all." Never a good thing. Especially not for an angel. He was hesitant to mention the meeting with Gabriel, part of him wished he'd just gone to Crowley first, rather than go behind his back.

Why? Why did he care so much about _that?_ Why did he care much about any of this? He's the enemy, as Gabriel said, that's all that should matter. And yet it wasn't.

+

Crowley snorted, not quite sure whether to be insulted or not, but not really surprised. He also felt suddenly alone when the angel moved his hand again, though he didn't respond.

"Well... here's the thing, it's bold of you to assume everyone else _was_ that bad." He paused, before acknowledging, "in the _beginning,_ anyway."

Maybe that's where he should start. That part was important.

"Like... speaking of him, say what you will about my boss, and _believe me I have,_ he wasn't always... I mean, _obviously_ he wasn't always _this._ He used to be, you know--s'pose you don't though, do you?"

+

That made Aziraphale look back up at him like a deer in headlights. Like something had been jogged in him, a light turned on upstairs so to speak. And then an uncomfortable look crossed his face like he was confronted with something _wrong._

Shifting around a little in his seat, something he didn't do often, he spoke softly. "I never knew him personally... I..." He sighed and dodgily glanced about the room, suddenly feeling like he was trapped in a very small box. "I guess I'd just... forgotten in a sense. Hardly an excuse, I know, and I'm terribly sorry for it."

He wasn't--he wasn't really sure what to say about it. Even admitting that much left a sour taste in his mouth. It made him want to confess to the fact he did. He wasn’t sure why, it was just--ingrained into him, going against everything he knew, everything he'd been _told._

+

Crowley _almost_ felt bad. Almost wanted to stop talking so he didn't have to watch the angel stop and _think._ If he'd been just a little more self-aware, maybe he'd have realised exactly how familiar the feeling was, and maybe he'd have stopped to think, himself, about how badly this could go.

"Don't--don't apologise, angel, just..." Just listen, he supposed, it was all he could hope for.

"Like you say, you didn't know him personally. I _did."_ He paused again, looking lost in thought, and bought some time with a bit more drinking.

"Where do I start? I mean he was Lucifer _blasted_ Morningstar, wasn'e? He was the _best_ of us!" Crowley shifted again, gesturing vaguely, unsure how to put what he needed to say into words. "He was--beautiful, and powerful and--kind, back then. He was... well, it's in the name, innit? Bastard shone like the sun."

"You just..." He took a slow breath. "Wanted to impress him."

Crowley cleared his throat, a bit awkwardly, and ran a hand through his hair, drawing his attention back from being lost in the middle distance. "Point being," he continued, "point being, that was then. It's just... context."

+

Thinking was wrong. Angels aren't supposed to think, not _really._ After all, what is there to think about? There's what you know as gospel, and that's it. You just follow the word given and move with the flock. He'd stamped the wax seal on his fate and he was merely obliviously awaiting the letter to arrive to the top for execution.

Aziraphale listened to what he said. He listened to him go on about Lucifer. Everything he said, from being beautiful and kind, to him shining like the _sun._ That you just... wanted to impress him. Aziraphale looked at him, with those half lidded eyes, almost just... gazing into him.

He looked at him like he understood, and it was a shame Crowley was lost in thought. Because the time he was back Aziraphale was sipping his drink idly and those old eyes were shut.

He slowly set down the glass, fingers rolling around the shaft of it. Nodding along slowly. "I... I know you said not to apologize but I really must. I feel as though I must." He wasn’t entirely understanding why he'd turned around so much at the revelation, maybe a sudden newfound respect for Crowley, maybe a loss of such for the upstairs. "I've hardly been understanding about all... that. Much more complicated than I think I was ever willing to admit."

+

It really was a shame, because when Crowley finally snapped himself out of a vision of the past that he'd tried to bury for _millennia,_ he did look at Aziraphale. Maybe for a reaction, maybe because once he stopped talking he felt just a _little_ bit embarrassed.

Or, maybe, it was better that he didn't see Aziraphale's expression. Right now it might have been just a little too much.

Crowley wasn't sure how to respond to the angel's next words. It was the understanding that he wanted, that he _needed,_ but it was also... a lot. More than he'd been expecting, but perhaps he'd been selling Aziraphale short. 

"For what it's worth, I'm guessing no one upstairs admits it was _complicated."_

His voice shook, only just slightly, and he decided to forge ahead.

"Right... _right._ Where was I? Yeah. Context. You just... that's who you need to picture, not Satan."

+

Aziraphale was quiet as he shook his head. Like he was worried if he spoke too loudly holy retribution would be cast on him in the very spot he was sitting.

“Nobody ever talks much about the whole affair... in fact I’d say there’s significant...” he stopped himself suddenly and swallowed a bit dryly, squaring up his shoulders and straightening his back as deft hands poured himself more champagne, “...incentive not to.”

He remembered his conversation with Gabriel, it felt... well it felt unwelcoming. Then again, Heaven always did nowadays, for him at least.

Aziraphale nodded along again, slowly and calculatedly before taking a sip of his drink.

“I suppose they’re all content with how things are, their version of the events and what have you.”

+

Crowley was pretty sure that _significant incentive_ was an understatement. Still, he didn't quite catch the significance of the other's tone.

"Yeah, well..." He sounded tired, and something else harder to place. During the pause he drained the remainder of the bottle. Might be time to break out another.

"You want _my_ version? The rest of it--bits I was there for, anyway..."

Because that was part of the tragedy, really. He'd been there, but he hadn't been at the center of it, not that that mattered to anyone. He'd simply stood close _enough_ to the fire to be scorched by it.

A part of him knew he should stop talking, but he wasn't sure he _could,_ now. He'd opened a box that had been under lock and key for longer than he cared to remember, and closing it was another matter entirely.

+

Aziraphale didn't get along _great_ with Heaven. As Gabriel said they tended to think he'd spent far too much time down here. That he indulges himself too much. That they don't understand his fascination with humans and their customs, their things. 

He thinks for himself too much. Flies too far from the tight knit flock. 

He nodded along and took a bite of another chocolate, it was awfully thoughtful of Crowley to get them. Far from the first gift he's received from the other. As just stated, Aziraphale loved _things_. Having them, tangible things he could surround himself with. 

Eating, oh eating was another one. He had a certain fondness for food of all sorts. Be it sushi or, well, crepes. Tarts, cakes, sweets, he had a special affinity for them. So the chocolates were a delight. His favorites were from a small little store in Belgium, he'd been going for decades now and slyly putting in investments to ensure it would stay open throughout the family. 

He pulled himself out of his recollections to pay attention once more. "We've come this far, may as well."

+

In fact, the little store in Belgium was doing _very well indeed,_ because Aziraphale wasn't the only one investing in it. Crowley had a _lot_ of money after all, and he tended to spread it around.

 _Where_ he tended to spend it, well. Crowley noticed things, and he paid a lot more attention than he suspected the angel had any idea of. Which was how it was meant to be, of course.

So, sometimes, if a struggling author needed a break to make sure a series could have a complete collection, or a sushi restaurant was in some trouble over _exactly_ what they were serving, or the man with that _one_ brand of cigars was going out of business, well... things just tended to work out.

"Right, well, like I say, that's who you need to picture, when I tell you to imagine that one day you went looking for him."

He paused, lost in the past again. "Because... I don't know. I don't even _know_ any more..." he shrugged, before continuing.

"Doesn't matter. Because you wanted to show off a nebula design, or you'd just had the idea for _cats.”_

He took another chocolate, buying himself a moment to put words in order.

"So you go looking, and you can't find him, until you _do,_ only... only he's leaving the City. And picture, this part won't be hard for you, picture you're a _good boy,_ and you've never strayed off the path, never been out there in the _dark,_ but oh now you're curious, so you follow him."

He was silent again, for a moment, before commenting almost idly, like he was just musing to himself now.

"You know? I don't think I'd ever seen anyone cry before. Early days and all. Might've been the day it was invented, come to think of it..."

He was back to gazing distantly into the candle flame.

+

It hurt some part of him. It hurt Aziraphale to think this happened and all this time he never bothered to actually follow up on it. To understand both sides of the tale. 

It made him _furious_ , and that's not something he feels easily, he’d think anyways. He wanted to reach out, be an anchor for the other.

It made him want to storm back up there and demand fair justice, the crime didn’t feel like it fit the punishment, not at all.

It made him wonder how many others were just misguided souls looking to follow their betters. 

His fingers curled into fists on his thighs and when Crowley said _that_ , the flame he gazed into burst up suddenly. Illuminating every crease of Aziraphales face, and the bloody murder in his eyes for just a half of a _second_ , before he reached over with his hands, smoothing down the flame back to what it had been. 

“Ah--that was my fault, terribly sorry.” He felt he was saying that a lot, sorry, but he didn’t feel he had apologized enough for _anything_.

He slowly moved his hands back in front of him. “I see, though... it’s... certainly upsetting to hear it took that turn.” 

He felt he was getting a bit... loose with his grip on his emotions and took a deep breath, flushing the alcohol from his system with his exhale. 

“It’d always been, well, glorified in a way. Never thought too hard about it, before.”

+

It took the flare of fire to snap Crowley out of whatever, exactly, he was lost in. He blinked slowly, looking up at the angel. Had he _ever_ seen him look like that?

He watched the angel for just a bit too long before looking away again.

"Hm? Oh, no, that wasn't--that wasn't _after_ he fell, this was where it started. I... think. Where it started for me at any rate."

He gave a frustrated sigh.

"Cause _I_ had to bloody well go and ask what was _wrong."_

It was all downhill from there, but that's where it started. Because angels aren't supposed to be curious. Not even when they're trying to help. Not even when someone they _care_ about is _clearly not okay._

+

Aziraphale, well... Something made Aziraphale shift at that again. Thinking on it.

Asking, _asking_ questions. That was so wrong, wasn't it? So frowned upon? So much so one could... fall for it. He stifled a dry swallow and nodded along idly. Suddenly he'd lost what appetite he had left.

But he managed to subtly clear his throat and furrow his brows, "Oh?" He asked. Admittedly, his thoughts were wandering but he tried not to ignore the other, or wander too far away. Because suddenly that regret from earlier was weighing in his stomach like a heavy stone.

_Should I have done that?_

No, he should not have. It's only a matter of time now. But in all his infinite optimism and ignorance, he's untouchable, isn't he? It's been over 6,000 years since anyone has fallen, surely they wouldn't?

+

It was hard to say if he noticed the angel's attention wandering, because he still wasn't quite _here,_ or _now._

"Turns out," he slurred slightly, seeing as he hadn't actually chosen to sober up, much as it might have been a good idea.

"Turns out, he's seen how She actually treats her children. How She doesn't... value our lives. How She can take them away."

His nose wrinkled as he shifted in his chair again, finally leaning his chin on his hand.

"How it wasn't... just, and it wasn't... _right."_

He was looking away again, not quite letting himself watch Aziraphale's reactions.

"Just... Imagine hearing that from the guy you _look_ to for your answers. And he wasn't... now, sure, yeah, it's in the job description, but he wasn't one to lie back then. But still, you don't just _believe_ that, you think... no, no no nooo, there's got to be an explanation, there's got to be a reason, they must have _deserved_ it, it's just... It's... It's... It's..."

He snapped his fingers a few times like he was trying to find the right word, before finally, for once, looking the angel in the eyes.

_"Ineffable."_

Perhaps that hadn't _been_ the word, at the time, but he was making a blessed point.

+

A damn shame, for if he had been watching, Crowley may have realized now would be a good time to stop talking. But he didn't, and so he continued on and on. And every word sunk its dark tendrils into Aziraphale’s brain and latched onto his soul.

Crowley said it, _it wasn't right._ It made him feel ill to his stomach, and made him regret all the chocolate.

When Crowley looked back Aziraphale wasn't looking at him as much anymore. He was staring down the flame of the candle that he'd calmed moments before. Unblinking, his eye only twitched near imperceptibly when Crowley said _ineffable._

"You're right." He finally said, after a moment’s silence. "It's not... right, that is."

Maybe that was the tipping point. The place of no return. No amends, no repenting, no second chances this time, not for Aziraphale.

+

It was true, Crowley absolutely, definitely should have stopped talking. But he didn't, and he couldn't. The train had left the station and was barreling towards its inevitable _crash._

He'd spent so long pretending that hey, being damned wasn't so bad, really, when you got used to it. That the job was less dull, the music was better, you got to set your own hours, there was _less_ paperwork. That he was absolutely _fucking_ fine.

Lying was part of the job description, after all.

He nodded, perhaps too caught up in his own internal turmoil to fully process the significance of the angel agreeing with that.

"I only ever asked questions. That's all it took. I didn't even... When it all went pear shaped, I didn't _fight._ I wasn't... I wasn't one of his _generals._ I wasn't even one of his _guys_ not... really."

There was something almost _desperate_ boiling under the surface, behind his unblinking eyes.

He didn't need absolution from the Almighty, because at this particular moment he felt the Almighty was a great bloody _bitch_ whose opinions weren't worth the dead trees they were printed on.

But he needed something, from someone. Maybe he just needed to hear that he wasn't, well,

"I only ever asked questions. An' that was just as unforgivable."

+

This time, Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He just sat there and listened. And stewed in his own troubled thoughts on the matter.

At some point he wordlessly reached over again. Resting his hand over Crowley’s before offering a reassuring squeeze. A way of asking if there was anything he could do to help without saying it. To try and help ground him.

As much as he wanted to just... wrap his arms and wings around him, to bring him back to Heaven and demand fair justice.

Though Heaven may not be much better, nor is Hell very nice. He wished there was just... a third option. To simply exist.

No lords, no almighty, nobody one must answer to.

+

Crowley looked up again, briefly, when the angel squeezed his hand. He looked _lost,_ mostly. He may have understood the offer but he wasn't sure what he wanted or needed right now let alone how to ask for it.

This helped. Maybe it was enough. He looked away again, just breathing in silence for a bit.

 _"Anyway."_ He finally tried to force some lightness back into his tone, starting to regret just how vulnerable he'd made himself. "You did ask."

+

He offered him a small sort of smile. One genuine and caring, yet so small it looked as fleeting as a mayfly, although it persisted still. Not moving his hand from atop Crowley's.

"I did," his voice was slow, soft, as patient as his expression, "I wouldn't take that back for the world, Crowley."

He gave one more squeeze, a reminder he was here with him, before removing his hand once more.   
"But... I do think perhaps you've had quite enough to drink."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting to post this one, it's got some of my favorite dialogue that I've written for Crowley.


	4. As Above, So Below

+

Meanwhile, Above.

There were, perhaps, any number of moments one could point to and say there, that's where things changed, that's where there were no more branching paths, no more hope.

And, perhaps, this was true.

But perhaps it was also true that Aziraphale had sealed his fate long since, and the powers that be had simply taken this long to notice.

"Gabriel?" A sickly-sweet voice, calling out for attention in a stark, silver expanse.

Heaven, officially, has no back-channels. Heaven, officially, has no surveillance. A lot of things in Heaven are, as it were, unofficial.

"I have something I think you need to see."

+++

Hell sees a lot of things, should they want to, it just so happens Hell never seems to be looking in quite the right places.

A voice would cut up around the buzzing of flies, one that croaked as it spoke with some hesitance to it.

"Lord Beelzebub?"

"What izz it, Hastur."

"Well- ah... it’s about Crowley"

_"Spit it out already."_

"Actually I think you rather ought to see for yourself..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little update today (as a treat.)


	5. Surprise Inspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation comes to an end, and things appear to be looking up.

Crowley looked, just a little bit, like he might cry. He started to say something, stopped, tried to settle on words.

Suddenly he _knew_ what he wanted, and it was very simple. He _wanted_ to curl up in Aziraphale's arms. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be warm and safe and cared for.

He wasn't even sure the angel would stop him. But he wasn't sure he wouldn't, and at the moment he _knew_ he couldn't take that.

"...Thank you." This was very quiet, before he nodded, and sucked in a sharp breath, letting it whistle between his teeth.

"Maybe so, but if I ssstop I'll have to remember this conversation sober." He tried to make this sound like more of a joke than it was.

+

He’d do it in a heartbeat, now more than ever. He’d never seen Crowley so broken, so worn. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for him in the moment it all happened.

He wished he’d been there.

But right now he couldn’t be certain if that's what Crowley wanted. If Crowley wanted comfort or if that would be too pitying. If he just wanted him to sit there and listen.

That wasn’t a very funny joke, though, Crowley. But something occurred to Aziraphale that made his face light up as he took the bottle and the glasses in his hands.

“Oh I know! I’ll make a few cups of cocoa, something nice and warm,” and most definitely non alcoholic. “I’ll only be a minute.”

And with that he puttered off to the side and up the creaking stairs to the flat above. Nobody has seen the flat above, nor do they know what it contains. Some may assume it’s of sinister nature. In reality, it’s simply the mostly unused living space of a bibliophilic angel.

Some moments later he descended with two mugs. He decided not to use his more charming winged mugs as he felt it may be a touch inappropriate given the tone and subject of their conversation, so plain ordinary handles were in effect.

Aziraphale set the mug down in front of Crowley and pulled up his own seat once more, cupping his hands around his own and simply enjoying the heat. “I make it myself, you know. Nothing too special but sometimes simple is better.”

+

Crowley probably wouldn't have said yes if the cocoa was an _offer,_ but he didn't argue when Aziraphale decided he was making it. It wasn't as good as more wine, but it sounded like that was off the table sadly.

Not that he really wanted to be alone with his thoughts. That road lead to dwelling on things, and that lead to musing on the fact he had to see his boss now and then.

They were... not on bad terms, of course. Most demons might not understand his modern approach to his job, but the Devil did appreciate creativity.

It meant he was praised, and mostly left to do his own thing. But being praised by a king of Hell who both was and wasn't the person he used to look up to--it hurt, somewhere deep down, and Crowley's solution was avoidance. Remembering as little as possible of the old days, spending all his time topside.

Not that it was the only reason he spent this much time here: he really did like the earth. That, and Aziraphale was here.

He was sprawling sideways off his chair by the time the angel returned, a tangle of limbs who appeared to have forgotten he wasn't a snake right now. He sat up, reaching to take the mug from Aziraphale and brushing his hand over the angel's knuckles as he did so.

"Of course you do." This sounded more fond than teasing.

+

Aziraphale was a bit amused by it, the way the other tangled up over himself like he was trying to knot his body around, much akin to a pretzel. Or to coil up like a serpent, though if that’s what Crowley wanted he knows there’s a much more easy and literal way he could.

There was a little brush, a little contact of fingers over knuckles that made Aziraphale’s heart skip for the moment he thought perhaps it was intentional. But he couldn’t be certain and frankly it was most likely not.

He’s too easily spurned, he thinks. And it was a wonder neither had sought to out the other on it. If they noticed at all.

“Naturally, after all just _miracling_ something like that is just so impersonal. I find making things yourself to enjoy can be quite cathartic.” Even if he wasn’t... particularly good with more food based things aside from drinks.

Perhaps he could take a class for it. Home-cooking things actually edible could be rather nice rather than needing to go out whenever he catches a craving.

+

It absolutely _was_ intentional, but that didn't mean Crowley was going to say anything about it.

Instead, he just sipped his cocoa idly. He really wasn't as fond of chocolate as the angel was, but it was warm, and probably a better plan than more alcohol, loathe as he was to admit it.

"Sure it's not just to avoid those little notes about performing too many miracles?"

Probably not the best joke right now, come to think of it, but a slightly strained attempt at natural banter.

+

It'd been a lot of things like that. 6,000 years of Crowley dropping hints. It took only a little less than that for Aziraphale to realize his... own situation. But he'd not noticed the fact the things Crowley did were for the same reason. Instead he'd simply bottled up those feelings and tries to chastise himself whenever he feels, well, tempted to act upon them.

Too much anyways.

It wouldn't stop him from jotting down mental recollections specifically of times they'd went off together for an occasion. Or the little favours they'd done for each other, even outside of the arrangement. It didn't stop him from sparing clandestine stares to Crowley now and then, simply _admiring_ how he moves through the world. 

So unlike an angel, so unlike a demon. Crowley defied expectations, he was simply Crowley. He was what he made himself. And Aziraphale found that radiant. 

_Bastard shone like the sun_.

"Oh- well, perhaps a bit," he admitted a bit flustered. "But I think I've rather gotten a hand of it by now, not too difficult or very many steps to worry about, after all. Though I'm certain it's not quite your 'flavour'."

+

After 6,000 years of dropping hints, Crowley honestly wasn't sure what the point was anymore. He wasn't likely to _stop,_ but he didn't really expect anything to come of it, either.

And that was… fine. Perhaps if they hadn't been on opposite sides, things would have been very different. But perhaps they wouldn't. The angel wasn't required to feel that way, certainly didn't _owe_ him anything.

Either way, for all his frustrations with him, for all their little fights and misunderstandings, he didn't want to imagine his life without the angel in it.

Aziraphale… wasn't the sun. He wasn't blinding. He wasn't a flame that burned. But he was one you could _touch,_ and somewhere in the past six millennia it had dawned on Crowley that _warm and soft_ was the kind of thing he'd much rather be close to.

There's wanting to impress someone and then there's simply wanting to be with them. And really, where had trying to impress people--God, Lucifer, take your pick--ever gotten him? Hell, that's where.

When Aziraphale sounded flustered he reached across the table to pat his hand, almost absently. "S'a joke, angel." A little patronizing, though not terribly.

"But yeah, I like the spicy kind."

+

Maybe he just didn't realize the way the other looked at him behind those shaded lenses. Maybe he just didn't want to accept that the two of them looked at each other the same way, though through different perspectives, for different reasons.

It was... too much. There have been times, since the day he realized. Where there's nothing he wants _more_ than Crowley. 

But there were plenty of days where he'd wished he'd never realized it in the first place, knowing it best to just stifle that want, that _desire_ for more. He's a _demon_ , and you're an _angel_. 

You should _know better than that_. 

He offered a small smile at the little pat. It always meant... more to him, when Crowley did it. He wasn’t sure what it was, the difference between him brushing against Crowley's hand and Crowley brushing against his. 

There've been a fair number of times he'd wanted nothing more than to stop and hold them there, together, fingers intertwined in the fear that time and their betters would eventually catch up to them in this dance they partake in. 

He _does_ know better. 

"Oh well, you know they do have recipes for spiced cocoa, and there must be other drinks with a burn to them that don't have too high of an alcohol content." He thought on it a bit, no he wasn’t terribly against drinking. But seeing Crowley in this state, so adamant on not sobering up lest he deal with the gravity of this conversation... it just weighed on him somewhat.

+

"Don't worry about it." Crowley said this just a little too quickly.

It was endearing that Aziraphale was trying to think of things he'd like better, but the first place his mind went was that he really wasn't in the mood to be left alone with his thoughts again. As he realised this, he also realised how blatantly pathetic it felt.

Crowley sighed and reached up to rub the bridge of his nose, finally taking off his shades as he did. His eyes were solid golden yellow--no point putting any effort into looking human in present company--and a little vacant.

"You're right," he muttered, "maybe I _should_ sober up a little."

He focused on speeding up his metabolism, not enough to kill his buzz instantly, but at least enough to make him a bit more present. He sipped some more of his cocoa, looking a touch sheepish now.

+

He blinked a bit wide eyed as the other spoke out fairly fast. Oh. Alright then, note not to press that one much more.

He watched the other move the glasses from his face to the table. It wasn't as clear as it was with human eyes, which stained red, but he could still see the hurt and struggle in them, the exhaustion. It made his chest tighten and his knuckles feel as though they'd pop. 

There was just a bit of pride when the other mentioned he was right. Another part of him just glad that Crowley wouldn't be going home in total disrepair. He hardly knew how to drive when he _wasn't_ in such a hammered state. 

His expression softened, sipping his own cocoa. Simple things in life, the look on Crowley’s face made his chest loosen a bit more, allowed him more space to breathe. "Better? May be smart to go more light on the drinking, should another conversation of this gravity come up again in the future. Hardly seems a good way to deal with it, looking back on that." 

He sighed a little contentedly, "Though hopefully that won't be necessary at all, thank you, again. For sharing with me."

+

Crowley muttered something vague about 'tell _me_ what to do...' but there wasn't really any venom in the grumbling. No, this wasn't particularly healthy, but he probably wouldn't have forced himself to talk otherwise, and maybe in the grand scheme that was cathartic enough to tip the scales.

"But... yeah. Bit better," he conceded, though he wasn't sure if it was true. Still, he didn't want the angel to worry too much. It probably said something that he was concerned about that even now.

"Mmm... well, thanks for _listening."_ He sounded a little awkward, and slightly too casual. He wasn't really sure how to express exactly how much it genuinely did mean to him, and he wasn't entirely sure if he should try.

What he did realize was he should probably be going soon; much as he didn't really want to, there was only so long they should push being found in the same place, and crashing at the bookshop was probably too long. He swirled his cocoa around for a moment before downing the rest.

+

Aziraphale stifled a small amused scoff at the comment. He'd... well. He wouldn't say he _enjoyed_ this, after all, it did serve to dredge up a fair amount of questionable thoughts and a slew of emotions. But he was glad they did it, because now that he got the essence that it was all said and done, he felt... well, he wouldn't take this day back, if he could.

His smile softened more to a full one, the corners of his eyes wrinkled ever so slightly. 

"You know, Crowley, should there be anything else you feel the need to get off your chest. I don't mind hearing more, just if you need someone to lend an ear." He felt himself say without much thought to it or consideration. It was a bit... personal, but he felt that was a threshold long since crossed.

When Crowley started to knock back the drink Aziraphale slowly pushed up from his chair, setting the lid over the box of chocolates and finishing off his own drink, less speedily but still efficiently. Setting his mug down more near the centre of the table.

"Are you going to be alright getting back to yours, then?" He wasn’t sure... what he'd be able to do to help exactly. But he still felt some concern for the other. He didn't necessarily want to leave him alone, wanting more to just stay close to one another, stay grounded, but best not push their luck too much, right?

+

Crowley found himself smiling just a bit back. Something had... cracked, maybe, in their usual dynamic. Not that Aziraphale hadn't been there for him before--a certain thermos under lock and key came to mind--but still. A crack in that layer of distance between them, through which they could speak just a little more openly.

"If I need to talk about ancient history again you'll be the first to know." This was flippant, but certainly not hostile. Maybe he _would_ take him up on the offer. Maybe.

He stood up, stretching briefly to work a knot out of his back. He really should remember he wasn't a snake by now, but it was surprisingly easy to forget.

"I'll be _fine,_ angel. You may not like my driving but it hasn't gotten me discorporated yet." See? Almost back to his usual, snarky self. Nothing to worry about.

He turned to head back through the bookshop, but he paused when he got to the door. He started to open it, changed his mind, and turned back to look at Aziraphale.

+

A little more openly, a bit clearer. Maybe Aziraphale would use this change, too. Heaven has shifted its dynamics since the revolution, things have, well, changed. But only in the ways it sees fit. He admits.. there are things he'd like to talk about, things he's _never_ talked about, because- well... who would listen?

After this, he felt maybe, for once in his eternal life. Maybe he had someone all along. At the same time... well, even with how much Crowley poured out to him, he wasn't sure if the other would even be all that interested. Or perhaps him talking about heavenly affairs would be hard on him, and best left to the shadows as it’s meant to be. Or, one supposes the blinding light would be more fitting.

An almost comical frown crossed his face. Like a sad dog. But he shook it off easily enough. _"Yet,_ he says. Meaning it very well could still happen, you know."

He followed along with him as he paced through the book shop. His hands tucked behind his back, idly tracing his own palm with his thumb. He waited for Crowley to step out but--he didn't. A puzzled look and a small tilt of the head as the other turned around to face him once more.

"Is something the matter, Crowley?"

+

Crowley decided not to dignify Aziraphale's comment with a response. He was _good_ at driving. Or at least, he was good at arranging reality so that he never hit anything (or anyone, despite his comments on pedestrians), and that was effectively the same. He thought of pointing out how often it was Aziraphale who needed rescuing, not him, but decided against it.

He also missed the angel's expression, or else he might have been a bit concerned--or felt like he'd somehow kicked a puppy. If he'd _known_ what was bothering the other he might have pointed out that it was nonsense, as well.

"No, nothing." Not true, per se, but also not really why he stopped. The reason he stopped was that he suddenly felt something most easily expressed as _you know what, fuck it, why not._

"Just... hey, c'mere."

It was meant to be a quick thing, something he could pass off as an overly-friendly 'good night', and then, most likely, leave without really waiting for a response. Either way, he took a step towards Aziraphale and pulled him into a hug.

+

It took him by surprise. When he was suddenly pulled closer he wasn't _sure_ what it was he expected to happen, but it most certainly wasn't _this_ . Hell it took him a beat to realize what was happening. He was being _hugged_ by the enemy, the adversary, a demon. 

A friend. 

Something in him didn't so much as shatter as gently pull fractions apart and float away from each other; it was his resolve. Because as brief as it was he wanted nothing more than to make it last forever, a simple, innocent gesture and god how he realized how much he'd been _wanting it_.

So the moment he snapped out of his stupor his own arms wrapped around Crowley, not too tight, yet not too ghosted or light. If this was a Goldilocks story, this hug would be _just right_. He just... savoured it, as long as he could, like it didn't matter who saw them. Before slowly stepping back and giving him a chance to abscond.

+

The plan had certainly _been_ to pull away quickly, perhaps for fear of a negative response, perhaps because he had a _reputation_ and all.

What happened instead was that Crowley just kind of... melted. When Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him he was briefly startled, and then the tension slowly drained out of his back as he buried his face in the angel's shoulder.

Then he just _stayed_ there. Had Crowley been just a little more self aware, phrases like _touch starved_ might have come to mind. But he wasn't, and he was surprised by how much he _needed_ this. Something else, however, did come to mind. A memory almost as old as the ones he'd been revisiting tonight, but infinitely better: Aziraphale sheltering him from the first rain drops.

It had been an innocent gesture, done thoughtlessly. But that was the thing, really. It had been done thoughtlessly, and towards _him._ It had been the first time he'd realised this angel didn't look at him like the _rest_ of them did.

All downhill from there really.

When Aziraphale stepped back he made an effort to pull himself together.

"Right. Well." He glanced away, a little bit lost for words, so he decided against trying to find any. "G'night, angel."

+

Aziraphale wanted it to last forever. To cherish this. The way the other _sunk_ into him. To hold him close and never let go in the fear the tides of time and the pull of fate and faith would drag them apart. But they always found each other again even so, and he hoped, the next time they crossed paths, maybe they could revisit this feeling. 

It was all encompassing, a warm, soft light. It made his chest swell and feel full of air all at once, like he was moving through clouds and everything was _good_ in the world. They're both not the most aware sorts, but that comes with being timeless, old ethereal beings. No, but if they were, maybe he'd have the sense to realise what this felt like. 

_Requited love._

When two people start moving from a separate dance into one, feet moving in time, bodies in harmony and hands brushed against hands until fingers intertwine. With the clearest music just meant for _them_. That's what it felt like. 

It left a smile on his face, and a warmth in his eyes even as they parted, he raised a hand and gave a small little wave, "Goodnight, Crowley, until we meet again." With an almost cheesily poetic lilt to his voice, but he couldn't help it. When Crowley finally parted off he watched, before slowly shutting the door and locking it. Making sure the sign was turned to closed before letting out a contented and fond sigh. 

How foolishly in love he was. 

Aziraphale fixed his bowtie in the glass of the door before turning back to his shop, admiring it a moment with a bit more of an appreciation for the space before puttering off towards the back, he didn't want to leave the candle burning too long after all.

+

Crowley smirked just a little at the corny line, but fondly, as he turned to leave.

Something had definitely shifted, and right now it felt like a shift for the better. Like there was a weight he'd almost forgotten about off his shoulders. Like he was just a little less alone in the world.

He found himself driving home to the sound of Tchaikovsky's _Crazy Little Thing Called Love,_ and he couldn't find it in his heart to be annoyed with the Bentley.

He wasn't even in the mood to yell at his houseplants, though there may have been a lot of reasons for that.

  
+++

When Aziraphale made his way to the back of the shop, he would discover that he wasn't alone after all.

In fact, there were four figures seated around the table still perhaps-too-obviously set for two, and all of them were angels. All of them looked up in slightly unnerving unison.

"Hello, Aziraphale." Michael was practically purring. Gabriel, on the other hand, sounded less _angry_ and more _disappointed._

"Is there something you'd like to tell us?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one went up a bit late!


	6. A Table Set for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's someone else's turn to ask questions.

Aziraphale was looking forward to the rest of his night. He thought he might try and cook more, maybe just brew some tea and enjoy a book by the window. Curl up with a heavy blanket, maybe he'd even take a restful nap. Small little things, but they meant the world in the moment. Just... taking it slow, and savouring this.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. This end came in the form of four figures, he didn't process them at first. When he did he froze in place, before flexibly stepping back away, eyes darting around them as he tried to discern _ what _ was happening.

They were here, why were they here? They're at the table, the table he'd been--oh dear. His face started to pale and his hands remained motionless for once at his sides. He blinked slowly and tried to find the words, anything he could do, starting to formulate excuses.

"...Is there something you'd like to hear?" he managed a more friendly tone but it wavered, he couldn't decide who to look at, or what to do, it was troubling to say the least.

+

Michael smiled, and it gave the distinct impression of a cat playing with something small, helpless, and soon to be dinner.

"Oh, I'd love to hear your explanation for  _ consorting with the adversary." _

Gabriel nodded, slowly folding his arms across his chest. "An adversary I recall giving you a  _ medal _ for 'thwarting at every turn.'"

Uriel watched Aziraphale expectantly, but with no emotion. Cold, calculating, but holding off on making a move, for now. Sandalphon sneered, baring its teeth slightly, like a dog that was only behaving because it was, for the moment, on a leash.

+

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered down to the table set, emptied cups and glasses, lit candle set in the middle, a box of  _ chocolates. _ It became very quickly apparent that he... he couldn't lie this time.

He briefly met the gaze of Uriel and slowly, subtly, he took a step backwards. Practically squirming in his skin, like he wanted to  _ run _ but knew it wouldn't work, cornered with nowhere to go by something much bigger than he.

He stammered a moment before taking a dry swallow. The warmth he felt, the feeling he wanted to hold onto, cherish and coddle as long as he could started to fade, he felt it slipping from his fingertips. Maybe he could salvage this, maybe he could--

Breathe. "We have neutral grounds, like this for example. I know it seems bad but I was able to persuade him to reveal some pertinent information to me." Not... a  _ lie  _ per say, just... phrased in a way that may do more for him, as much as it felt sour on his tongue.

+

Gabriel held up a hand, making it clear that the Principality should stop talking now.

"Even if that were all this was, you know it's against the rules." The point was clear: Angels don't break rules, regardless of cause.

"But I don't think that  _ is _ all," Michael cut in, with insincere patience.

"I think," they continued, "that you've been a bit of a fallen angel. But you know that, don't you?  _ Fraternizing. _ Tempting people to  _ sin." _

+

Aziraphale immediately stopped as the hand was held up, like he'd done up a zipper over his mouth. He hung his head down slightly in embarrassed shame, nodding along as Gabriel spoke.

But when Michael spoke, he felt his spine bristle, teeth grit together behind thin lips. He looked up at them, well not exactly, more at their neck, not wanting to meet their gaze.

"Whatever makes you think that?" he asked with faux coyness. He could find a way out, he always does. It's just a matter of noticing the right moment and using what they say to his advantage. He's done it countless times now, what's one more, right?

+

"We've seen... well, enough," they didn't clarify how. Officially, angels don't break rules. Officially, they don't even bend them.

Gabriel slowly rose to his feet.

"Trust me, I *wanted* us to be wrong." He sounded like he might have actually meant it.

"But I don't think you're getting out of this one."

+

As Gabriel stood, Aziraphale took yet another step back, sparing a glance to the door regardless of how hard he tried  _ not _ to. He let out a small laugh at that and softened his expression as he took yet another step back. 

"Surely we can talk about this. I promise there's a reasonable explanation for anything you may have seen!" He tried to keep his tone jovial and light as hard as it was getting. 

"No need to do anything someone will regret, yes?" he tried suggesting, as much as it was really starting to dawn on him what was happening. And it wasn't good. 

_ The phone. _ He needed to get to his phone. He needs--no. Too risky, he can't... he can't drag him into this too, he'll find a way out of it, right?

+

"I think," said Gabriel, "that you're going to be the only one with regrets."

Uriel stood next. They tilted their head slightly, candlelight glinting off the gold in their face. 

"Tell me," they began, tone nothing but idle curiosity, "did you think your boyfriend would get you special treatment in Hell?" They leaned in, almost conspiratorially. "Because it sounds like he's getting a  _ promotion _ for this."

Michael smiled again, the cat closing in on a wounded bird. "Just something for you to think about."

+

Aziraphale’s back bumped up against a shelf beside the door to the backroom. Through it he could see his shop, he could see his desk, the phone. The  _ door. _ Every inch of his soul was being pulled towards it. He wasn’t sure where he'd go but he'd have to find somewhere, anywhere.

"You can't seriously be implying what I think you are... implying," he stammered nervously, losing the friendly tone bit by bit, "I mean- it's a bit silly, isn't it? It's been over 6,000 years since, well, that sort of divine act." To his knowledge anyways.

Heaven, as we've learned, does many things  _ unofficially, _ and he's not exactly in the loop, or a confidant regardless.

He did skip a beat when he heard the words  _ promotion _ come from their mouth. "Promotion? For what? Where did you hear that?" he sputtered out more, slowly inching more out the door to the main bookshop. Just needing a clear enough breakaway to run, really.

+

"We have ways." Michael was standing now as well, all of them starting to close in slowly.

Suddenly Uriel was a blur, and the next second they had grabbed Aziraphale by the collar, before slamming him into the nearest wall, knocking books from their places. Their face didn't change as they did this, still almost bored.

+

The wind was knocked out of him in a rocking huff as he was forced up against the wall, elbow knocking against the shelf and his fingers curling up around Uriel’s wrists. He gasped to catch his breath and he started to look more frantic.

"Wh-Why are you doing this?" He managed to whine out as he tried to worm his way free. "We're supposed to be the  _ good _ guys! Right?" He was sounding _ desperate  _ right about now.

+

"We are the good guys." Gabriel stepped closer, cutting off a line of escape and towering over Aziraphale.

_ "You're _ not." Explained Michael, slowly, in a tone like they were speaking to a child.

Uriel hauled off and landed a punch to the Principality's temple, fast and skull-rattling.

The rest happened very quickly. There were a few more brutal blows, and soon Aziraphale would find himself bound and gagged.

Anyone watching from the outside would have seen a flash of bright light through the windows, and, perhaps, heard the last words ever spoken in the little bookshop.

_ "Renegade angels all tied up with string, these are a few of our favorite things." _

Or, if they'd been listening very closely indeed, they might have heard something start to  _ crackle, _ almost as if a candle had rolled off a table and caught the corner of a book on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm just self-conscious about the amount of show dialogue, but enjoy!


	7. Medals and Honors

Crowley was... exhausted, but in kind of a good way, really. That cathartic exhaustion that sets in after you've let out some of the emotions you've been bottling up for years and years and years.

That and, well, thinking about Aziraphale certainly wasn't hurting his mood. Maybe all those centuries of dropping hints--no, best not go there. _Still._

He hummed to himself idly as he sprayed his houseplants, checking them over as he always did, for something to do, but letting a spot or two slide. He wasn't quite in the mood for enforcing _unfailing perfection._ (The plants were very confused, and suspected a trap.)

When he was done he turned on the tv and sprawled across a chair, idly flipping channels but not finding anything he could focus on. He wondered if sleep would be a good idea or not.

+

Suddenly the channels wouldn’t flip anymore. They were one cold, dark room. With a figure upon a rusted ornate chair. A figure covered in puss and blisters like they were barnacles on the bow of a ship, or perhaps an ark. After all it was meant to carry all manners of life, wasn’t it? With small little bugs that zipped and flew about their head. Occasionally landing in ratty hair, seemingly unnoticed.

_“Demon Crowley,”_ the voice began, commanding his attention, warning him not to try and switch that channel again. _“The forces of hell would have a word with you.”_ Not even bothering to ask if he was busy as far as they were concerned, this took superiority over anything he could be tending to in his lounged state.

_“The adversary has been defeated. The forces of hell have gained a new face and it all seems to tie back to you,”_ it almost sounded _accusatory_ , _“this_ **_was_** _your doing, wasn’t it?”_ they asked, to the rather vague point they’d presented. Surely he’d agree if it were the case, which they’d much prefer to the... alternative that was presented. Crowley did good work, slow, but good, that can’t be denied, nor can the favouritism towards him. 

As it stood. If Crowley admitted this was his doing all along, and provided a satisfactory pitch to it, he’d be promoted. Well, promoted in this case mostly just meaning he’d be less bothered and gain some glittery accessories. 

If not, then well. It would seem to be less tempting and more _consorting_ as... sources had informed.

+

Crowley looked up, startled, even though he really shouldn't have been by now. He still wished the forces of darkness could be bothered to use a phone, but this method of pestering him wasn't exactly new anymore.

He pulled himself up to a sitting position, supposing he should appear to pay _some_ attention. Why did they have to call on him now? He was having a good night. Well, good for a given value. He was definitely in a better mood before this.

Why did they want a word, anyway? Had he done something wrong, or worse, right? He was a bit behind on paperwork, sure, but who wasn't.

For a moment, what Lord Beelzebub was saying made no sense. He hadn't defeated anyone. Perhaps they were simply giving him credit for some random coincidence again, like the Spanish inquisition or Eurovision.

Then the pin dropped and suddenly his blood ran cold. Well, colder than usual.

He didn't want to believe it, but what else could they be talking about? _Who_ else could they be talking about? He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. They were _right,_ after all: if this was true it was his fault, his doing. His fault for pushing boundaries, for planting questions. For his weak, _selfish_ desire for understanding, for--for things demons weren't supposed to feel. For not leaving well enough alone. For thinking he could be close to an angel without...

But it wasn't _just_ his fault. Because while his blood ran cold it also _boiled._

Crowley wasn't a violent creature. It wasn't really in his nature. He hadn't fought in the first great war. He hadn't fought for the Morningstar. But then blasted, sun-bright Lucifer had been calling the shots, hadn't needed protection. This was... Aziraphale. This was his angel. He wanted nothing more than to fly up there and beat Gabriel's stupid face into a pulp. He wanted to sink his _fangs_ into Michael. He wanted to... 

It didn't matter what he wanted right now. He wouldn't be doing anything if he didn't choose his words carefully. Even if he wanted to fight, or shake, or cry, or be sick, he had to pull himself together.

"Of... course it was." The words wanted to stick in his throat, but he forged onwards.

"And it wasn't easy, no one's--no one's fallen in six-thousand years after all," _and they wouldn't have if you hadn't been an idiot--_ "But you know me... _keen._ I thought, if anyone could do it, tempt an angel I mean," _you knew that's what you were doing, you could have stopped any time--_

"had to be subtle, right, Heaven has ears everywhere..." _Which you also knew, and you never left him alone._

He was rambling, and he knew it, but he'd lied to his bosses countless times. Just had to keep his tone even, pretend everything was all according to plan.

+

They listened. They considered. And slowly seemed to relax into their throne more. Fingers drumming upon the armrest of it as he babbled on about the plot. An almost amused sneer tugged at the corners of their mouth but it was wiped away as they held up a hand. A definite signal that he should stop talking now.

_“You have done well, the forces of hell would like to congratulate you on such a triumph.”_

There was a low buzzing noise that came from the television, then it came, flies, crawling out of it and zipping about like locusts before they formed a swarm. The swarm descended, so thick you couldn't see through it as it pooled over Crowley’s desk. Then it parted, and there was a medal laying there, the flies zipping about before receding back into the television. 

_“Consider yourself promoted,”_ they began to drone on the details of such, which forces of hell he may command now, who answers to him, the fact he’d have more... privacy, now. 

_“Azzz for the.. angel,”_ they started with audible discontent, _“The process hazzz begun, it will be overzzzeen by the demons Hastur and Ligur.”_ Who were some of the few that Crowley had found a superiority over, something they were awfully upset about. _“You’ve done well.”_

+

Crowley was just as glad when the prince cut him off, the more he had to try and justify his actions the more he was likely to slip up. Not to mention how much he wasn't enjoying it. Lying was part of the job, but they were rarely lies that _hurt._

His eyes followed the swarm, and he wished the noise would leave before it made his newfound headache any worse. That, and the flies had better leave without bothering his plants. As for the medal itself, he looked at it for a moment, but didn't pick it up.

He tried to pay attention to the particulars of his reward, nodding here and there, but he couldn't force himself to process much of it. He doubted it really mattered, for the most part. He wouldn't complain about the extra freedom, but it did nothing to make up for the situation.

Still, he had to _act_ grateful. "Thank you, _Lord_ Beelzebub." He bowed his head briefly, but couldn't seem bothered to make more of a show than that.

When they mentioned the angel, though, Crowley snapped to attention, even as he did his best to hide it. Hastur and Ligur... oh that wasn't good at all. He wasn't the only demon who was really just doing his job, some of them would probably show someone new the ropes without being too bad... but Hastur and Ligur were almost cruel enough to be human.

He tried to choose his next words carefully again.

"Good... good, but don't think I'm letting them have all the _fun."_ He did his best to force a malicious growl into his tone. "This was _my_ project after all."

+

Beelzebub paused at that. Narrowed eyes and slight tilt of the head. _“Would you... prefer to continue overseeing it?”_ when they said _it,_ it was clear they didn't just mean the situation as a whole, but specifically Aziraphale. That despite the fact he was one of _them_ now, the prince didn’t quite see it that way. Yet, that is. All in due time and all.

They righted their head and tilted it up some to look down their nose at him. _“What izzz it you... desire, Archduke Crowley.”_

+

Crowley hoped he hadn't slipped up right _there._ But it made sense, right? This was big--big enough for a promotion to _nobility,_ much as titles hadn't seemed to mean that much in a while, down there. Why would he hand it over to someone else? He just had to hope this was a real offer and not a trap.

"Well, like I say--put a lot of _time_ into this. _They_ weren't the ones who got an _angel_ to fall."

He sat up, unfolding from his sprawled pose and leaning towards the television. He knew he had to _sell_ this.

"What do I desire? What this was all _leading_ to. The part where I get to..." Come on, sell it, doesn't matter if the words taste like acid. _"Break_ him. Turn him into one of _us."_

Everything he never wanted, but he couldn't think about that right now.

"So yeah, if it's all the same..." He leaned a bit closer, putting on a slow, wicked grin, forked tongue briefly flicking past suddenly-too-sharp teeth. "The angel's _mine."_

+

The prince stared him down for what felt like an eternity but simply passed as moments. _“Very well, it shall be delivered to you upon arrival. Do keep an eye on it, and... call, should you decide it time to pass it to another.”_ They didn’t wait for a response and simply nodded, the screen flicking back to the normal channel it was supposed to change to, some news broadcast.

The low buzz that had been present was gone. And it left the medal, and a man to his lonesome. Well, a man shaped thing, one who was understandably very upset at this turn of events.

+

Crowley was incredibly relieved. Things were still terrible, but at least… at least it wouldn’t be Hastur and Ligur. If Aziraphale even wanted to see him… but even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be _them._

He waited a moment once the television feed returned to normal, before turning it off, and trying to hold himself together long enough to focus on checking if he could _feel_ anyone watching.

Once he couldn't... the cracks in his facade spread like ice shattering under the weight of his reality. He sucked a deep breath in through his teeth, before slowly sinking out of his chair, just kind of slithering to the floor until he was draped awkwardly against the side. Eventually, he buried his face in his hands.

He made a low, strangled noise in his throat as his shoulders began to shake.  
  



	8. Birdcage

Heaven, as a concept, is eternal. The Silver City, however, has changed over time. Its physical appearance shifting with the ages, and with fashion, with the human subconscious and with the ineffable moods of the Almighty.

It has been clouds and wind, and it has been blinding light and incomprehensible angles. It has been crystalline spires and stone arches, and it has been wrought iron fences and neat garden paths. It has been sprawling meadows and distant mountains.

The theme, these days, is 'modern'.

High-rises and offices, great expanses of glass windows barred by thin chrome slats.

Bright, clean, exposed and enclosed. With only a little imagination, it resembles nothing more than a bird cage.

Perhaps appropriate, given that at the center of this room sat a caged bird.

There was no trial, no jury of his peers, no due process. Angels, officially, do not have free will. Angels, unofficially, have free will, but not do not have freedom. The rules, and the punishments for breaking them, are absolute.

Aziraphale had been tied tightly to a chair. In appearance, it was a simple, unremarkable office chair, and the ropes were thin, silk, and white. In reality, appearances didn't matter. Struggling would do no good. Miracles would do no good. There would be no escape, not this time, not for an angel who had started asking questions.

He had been left alone to contemplate his fate, for what could have been minutes or could have been hours. The light outside had changed, but so had the view.

Eventually, the Archangels returned, stepping silently into the room until they surrounded him, expressions smug and self-satisfied.

+

He’d tried, he had to admit. Not very hard, but he had, to escape. Any subtle magic he could pull once he was alone, twisting and wriggling in his bindings. Anything he could do to get out, but--

But it didn’t work, and he knew it wouldn’t but if he wasn’t going to try... what was the point, really. Even if he had been able to get free, where would he go?

The punishments for well--let’s just say it who cares anymore, disobeying, are final. Should one succeed in delaying them, avoiding them, anything aside from walking neatly in a line towards it... he wasn’t sure what would become of him.

He just... grew still. Fingers curled in and eyes staring forwards out the windows. He wonders if he’ll ever see a view like this again. He dreads the answer, for just a moment. A fleeting second. He hopes they never come.

An eternity alone here, to think how once upon a time he’d tried so hard to avoid a similar fate, and here he was now, hoping for it.

He snapped out of his daze as he was surrounded. Eyes darting around the angels present, he felt enclosed, trapped, claustrophobic.

“Please- Sandalphon, Uriel-“ he tried to keep his voice as clear as he could but it wavered pathetically, for the first time in--well... perhaps forever, Aziraphale was afraid, truly and deeply, afraid.

“You don’t have to do this.”

+

Sandalphon looked unmoved, and Uriel tilted their head to the side, slightly, like he was something puzzling they'd found on the bottom of their shoe.

"Yes," Gabriel began, "we do." His tone implied this was obvious.

Michael smirked again, that cat that had the canary very much cornered now.

"Unlike some people, we do not  _ question _ the rules. And they're very clear on the subject of traitors."

Gabriel nodded. "Heaven must make an example."

+

Aziraphale opened his mouth like he was going to argue, try and plead his case, appeal to any sense of--and he shut it quickly. 

Eyes averted to his feet which shifted uncomfortably. They didn’t have any humanity to appeal to, he realized. Maybe Gabriel was right, maybe he’d been on earth too long. Maybe he should have taken that damn medal and left when he had the chance.

He swallowed, throat dry, speaking slowly and quietly. He didn’t have it in him to look up at their faces, not anymore. 

“So... what’ll it be, then...?” He forced himself to speak, trying not to succumb to a voiceless submission. But their gazes burrowed into him from all sides and seared his soul, driving him to remain at least momentarily obedient in all this.

+

Michael's smirk widened, just a little, when the principality gave up on arguing.

"Well, the forces of darkness are probably  _ proud _ of themselves right now. Tempting an angel-- trying to  _ add _ to their ranks..."

While the Archangels spoke, a couple of lower ranking assistants began to bustle about the room. It would be hard to see exactly what they were doing from where Aziraphale sat, but they appeared to be setting something up on the floor.

Gabriel's eyes narrowed slightly. "That won't do."

+

He tried to twist and crane his neck to see what was happening as he listened. The dread weighed on him heavy like weights now, dragging him closer and closer to the down below.

Then all at once it was drowning him. His head snapped to Gabriel as he processed what that implied. 

Slowly but surely the colours seemed to drain from his face. He stopped the small squirms and shifts he’d been doing idly in discomfort as his body  _ froze _ in place. 

“You can’t- It’s not right!” He suddenly lurched forwards in his chair. “This--any of it!” He suddenly found it prying its way out of his chest, all the rage and anger he’d felt during the retellings rekindled in a blaze. 

“You  _ know _ it isn’t, be it  _ falling _ or--or destruction, such sentences are too cruel to bear! Why must we resort to such--“ he stammered before furrowing his brows and staring down Gabriel. “ _ Cannibalistic _ acts against ourselves? You don’t even allow a chance to explain it? For mercy? We’re  _ angels _ not  _ animals _ for God’s Sake!”

+

Uriel took a step forward, their hand shooting out to grab the back of Aziraphale's chair and keep him from moving any further. Not that he could  _ go _ anywhere.

If his words made any impact on the Archangels, it didn't show. Perhaps, somewhere, deep down, they were simply forcing themselves not to consider these things. Or perhaps not. Perhaps, for them, the Word really was all they needed. Perhaps their loyalty was as infallible as they claimed.

"It's for  _ Her _ sake we do this." Michael said, taking that  _ tone _ again, like they were explaining to a child. "Animals who break rules don't know better. We're  _ angels." _

At this point it would become abundantly clear what the assistants had been doing. They scurried back, quickly, only too eager to get out of range as they lit the fire. The air filled with the stench of sulfur.

"It's  _ destruction,  _ by the way." Added Gabriel, helpfully, smile wide and fixed. "If you fell, well, that'd be a point for the opposition."

+

He wanted to scream and shout, to stomp his feet and  _ curse _ in their faces because they just--didn't seem to understand. Why? They must be  _ capable _ right? He wanted to grab Michael by their lapels and shake the daft ignorance out of them. 

Was he ever like this? Looking back on it, even before he cared as much as he did, he finds it hard to believe there was a time he was  _ this _ disconnected from it all. A time where he wouldn't shield a demon under his own wings. 

He watched the fire blaze up, a tall and all consuming pillar of hellfire. It danced in his eyes and the smell of sulfur hit him in a sharp inhale. His body shivered and something, very briefly, sparked in his eyes. 

It was warm, scorching even from there. And yet...

He felt a pull to it, like a siren calling a captain from the wheel to the side of the ship. Promising... well... he wasn’t sure, but...

He was sure something was  _ very _ wrong. 

He tried to shake his head and snap out of it before looking to Gabriel again, he didn't--he didn't know what to say. His white knuckle grip on the arms of the chair tightened. He found himself talking without processing the words anymore. 

"...Destroying one of your own isn't?"

+

It didn't matter if the logic was sound. It didn't matter if he had a point. The decision had been made, and as far as the Archangels seemed concerned, it was the right one.

"Destroying one of our own is a... sad necessity. Your choices brought us to this." Michael sounded  _ almost _ sincere. Either way, Heaven loses an angel. This way, Hell doesn't gain a demon. More of a no-score draw, at worst.

Gabriel's response was far less eloquent. "Shut your stupid mouth and  _ die _ already."

Uriel began to untie the ropes from the principality's wrists, freeing him.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be." The implication was abundantly clear: he could step into the fire, or he could be beaten bloody and thrown into the fire. Their tone made it sound like they didn't have a preference, really.

Sandalphon stepped up to flank him, its expression implying that it, on the other hand, did have a preference, and it was for condemned principality  _ trying _ to run.

+

Aziraphale rubbed his wrists as they were freed. Looking from Angel to Angel around him. It was pointless, too far gone, he thought. There was... really no escaping it this time. He couldn't... he couldn't  _ beat _ them. 

He looked to the fire again, and wordlessly started to rise from his seat. His hands wringing themselves in front of him idly as he took a step towards it, and then another, walking in a line without a word until he stopped right in front of it, close enough to reach out and touch it. 

This was really it... then. He didn't even get to say goodbye. Or have a last meal, or...

He took a deep breath and forced a brave face, but he spoke through gritted teeth with a waver to his voice. 

"... _ Damn _ you all, too, then. Sincerely."

And he stepped into it. 

It was a moment before he felt anything, and then that realization, that sense that something was wrong came flooding back as the fire near erupted. Flaring out some as a cry of pain was wrenched from his lungs. 

His spine bowed and arched and he nearly bent backwards completely, before he twisted and turned and contorted in the fire, trying to escape it but he  _ couldn't. _ He doubled forwards and gripped his head.  _ Her Grace _ was burning, alright, but it was leaving something behind. 

Something that made bones shift and legs wobble with a change in balance, something that pushed up between the fingers in his hair, something that made bright blue eyes turn  _ gold _ . Eyes that snapped up with his head to look at them with pain and fear and  _ anger  _ burning bright as the fire that spewed out as he opened his mouth.

+

Some eyes narrowed at Aziraphale’s last comment, but there was no other reaction. Gabriel winced, however, when he stepped into the fire. It was a little upsetting to see an angel burn, even one who deserved it.

Then things didn’t go as expected at all. Gabriel and Michael both took a startled step back, keeping out of range of the flames.

For the first time, the Archangels looked just a little bit shaken.

Perhaps they shouldn’t have been surprised. Angels do not ask questions. Angels do not break rules. This is true, but it is also true on something of a technicality: angels who ask too many questions, who break too many rules, are no longer  _ angels. _

Still, it had been over six thousand years.

Slowly, the Archangels backed off to discuss amongst themselves. If someone listened closely, they could have picked out a few phrases. ‘Worse than we thought’ and ‘didn’t think She took this kind of direct action anymore’. At some point, something that sounded suspiciously like ‘holy water’ but this was followed by ‘best not’.

After a few moments, it was Michael who approached again, though not too closely, their hands clasped together in front of them.

"It would seem the Lord, in Her  _ infinite mercy,  _ has decided to make you Hell's problem after all."

+

There was fair buildup to this. A fall long since due, some may say it was a miracle he hadn’t by now. Though one supposes that can be chalked up to many factors. Such as luck, or plain laziness when it comes to observing his work on earth.

When he was addressed again, he had his arms wrapped about himself in the flame, hugging his torso and keeping his body language closed. Shivering like he was cold, yet every part of his body felt on fire. Which it very much still was.

He looked to them as they spoke, his head spun and he fell, quite literally this time, onto the floor. From there on it was easy. At some point as they handled him he thought he heard someone say ’Gross’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one went up a bit late! Also, check out cryptic-cockroach on tumblr's [art for this chapter](https://cryptic-cockroach.tumblr.com/post/613449948706553856/i-can-finally-post-this-but-a-recent-chapter-just) and the rest of his feather fall tag!
> 
> (Note: the lyrics are from 'Hoof and Lap' from The Devil's Carnival: Alleluia)


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